Dance Mom
by mrssosostris
Summary: The story of how a duckling became a swan. A transformation from leather gloves to satin ribbons, small town US to metropolitan UK. Dancing, ballet, and London written by a Londoner. My take on Dancer!Blaine and Dancer!Kurt.


**A/N ****It was the first anniversary of A Parade of Elephants yesterday! So, I wrote something new. I've been wanting to write a second person fic as a bit of a challenge and I also wanted to write London, so I did them both here because I really am that wild. Don't know how well it all worked out but anyway, hope you like it!** Let me know!

* * *

Life has proven to you that sometimes your missteps can prove to be your best work. Annoying, isn't it, that everything you think you know is wrong? Like that time you set the goose roast on fire during that fateful dinner party of '97, right in front of the congressman. You were so embarrassed and Charles looked just about ready to slice you up with the carving knife, but it endeared you to the congressman and he came round on several occasions after that.

And then there was that disastrous pink lipstick/red cashmere combo you rocked at the Chase Charity Ball in NYC twelve, no, _thirteen_, years ago. Your whole body cringes just remembering it and god those pictures were awful, but everyone remembered you. They still know your name now, after all this time.

And, best of all, they can't remember why.

Anyway, you remember this particular moment well, this first tug of yarn that caused everything else to unravel right before your eyes. How your son, Blaine, had been five, full of energy and joy and bounce. He liked his goldfish, Goldie, and Disney movies and the blue pedal car Charles had bought him for his birthday. He had messy curly hair because it grew so fast that you never had time to keep up with the barbers' appointments, and he liked to wear his dark green dungarees everywhere. He pined for them whenever they were in the wash.

But what you remember most were those big, big green eyes full of innocence.

Big, big green eyes you couldn't resist.

Big, big green eyes that had, on Christmas Day 1999, stared at the TV screen during the Christmas Nutcracker, completely enraptured by the twinkling music and the arabesques and the pirouettes and all those other French things you'd tried and failed to learn as a girl. It is quite spectacular, really.

You chuckle as you briefly remember your parents saying that learning ballet would make you more marriageable. But you were _awful_ at it, a fact they finally accepted when you reached thirteen and got so gangly that even the fluffiest of pink tutus proved incapable of giving you an air of grace. You look up and your own mother, who has flown in from The Hamptons for Christmas, smiles at you, clearly sharing the same memory. You smile back happily.

You then look over at Cooper, your other son, who is fiercely tapping away at his new GameBoy. He looks to have inherited the teenage gangliness gene from you, the poor boy. You know he'll grow out of it, as will Blaine when the time comes; they'll be tall and slender in no time, just like you. But for now, he just looks that little bit awkward. He is a teenager, after all.

Then you grin. You can't help yourself. This is, after all, all yours; all this is _your_ achievement. The perfect holly twined around the mantelpiece, the nativity scene in the window, the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen: all you. It almost looks like a scene on Christmas card, you think, and you feel your eyes begin to twinkle as a burst of confidence shoots through your body just when you've been feeling yourself begin to sink into the housewifely chasm that has taken so many of your friends.

You repeat your mantra: you have a nice house, a successful banker for a husband, a happy family. Yes, everything worked out well for you.

You never needed ballet in the end.

You reach for the remote and change channel because the Christmas Special is just starting on NBC and it's a family tradition you all enjoy. You just about notice your younger son sighing a bit as the channel is changed, and you watch as he moves off to the corner of the room to play with his new light sabre. "Not in here, Blaine," you say more sternly than you'd like, "Breakables." And he nods before slipping out of the family room to his own bedroom. You hear several crashes throughout the evening coming from upstairs and laugh about it with Charles and your mother. At least, you joke, there's nothing fragile in Blaine's room. And Cooper just sits there, thumping away at that game with the repetitive electronic music where fictional animals try to knock each other out. Blaine doesn't like the game half as much as Cooper does. Maybe he'll grow into it, you think.

* * *

Blaine does grow into it. He's six and it's the height of summer, and now he has a GameBoy of his very own, just like his big brother. Cooper's is blue, Blaine's is yellow, and one of them has Pokémon Blue (Cooper, you think) and the other has Pokémon Red. And they just will not stop chattering away about it. Cooper is very competitive and takes no mercy on his brother, who is, by all estimations (including, begrudgingly, Cooper's), improving very rapidly indeed. They've both beaten the Elite Four, whatever that is, and recently Charles bought them a purple wire that they plug into their GameBoys to fight each other. Virtually. You don't like violence, even pretend violence, but at least they aren't beating each other up like your own brothers used to.

In many ways, it is Pokémon that brings them together. One of your favourite memories of that summer unfurls itself when you look out of the kitchen window and see the lanky figure of Cooper playing tag with little Blaine. Cooper is perhaps a little more violent than you'd like and Blaine a little more fragile, but you smile anyway because it's so nice to see your two boys getting along. The age difference is inconvenient for them both, you think, especially Cooper. But you had no choice: Charles was away in Connecticut so much and for so long that you hardly had time to make a baby, let alone raise one. You've come to appreciate the second chance you've had with Blaine. He's bright, very bright, and now you have the money to channel into any enthusiasm he may have. He's already a good pianist, and he's enrolled at the same private elementary school that did such wonders for Cooper. You have high hopes for him. Everyone has.

Minutes later, Blaine gets knocked over and Cooper laughs. Tears spill from Blaine's eyes but he's laughing at the same time, you think. It may be a little forced but he's learning. It is unseemly for a man to cry in public.

* * *

Blaine turns seven, and then eight. And still, you notice, his body is slight and small and he's just, well, _little_. You're sure Cooper was taller by this age, but you look back at pictures just to check because you always supposed they'd grow up to be like one another. Perhaps Blaine is a late bloomer, you think. It'll be hard for him, especially at a boys' school, because boys will be boys and they push and shove and laugh at the kids who aren't quite as, well, mature. But he'll just have to wait. He'll grow up eventually.

And he does. Sort of. But just not quite in the way you expect. At ten he is quiet and contemplative, retreating into his room the minute he gets home from school and only resurfacing for dinner. He spends hours playing his piano, reading, listening to music, sometimes with his brother, mostly not. You don't really think about him all that much when he's upstairs in his room.

It only gets worse when Cooper moves away to college in California. He's going to be an actor in Hollywood, you hear him explaining to Blaine. That means he won't have time to be Blaine's brother any more. You can't see Blaine because the door to Cooper's room is shut, but you can imagine his sunken eyes and hunched shoulders so vividly that he may just as well be right in front of you. Blaine loved those jam sessions with his brother, _loved_ them. He was so happy. One of his teachers, his favourite one (you forget his name), a bright young thing, mentioned something about him getting teased at school. But Blaine hasn't said anything so you don't really believe it. Not now you don't. Blaine's just sad because his brother is moving to the other side of the country in a matter of days.

And then you top the whole thing off by scolding him when he refuses to see his brother off at the airport.

* * *

Days, weeks, months pass. Cooper comes once and goes once. And Blaine becomes so withdrawn. He looks tinier than ever when you drop him off one time outside the gates of his junior high school. You can't help but notice that his classmates are tall, stocky; Blaine is the smallest kid in his year.

The summer comes and goes, and Blaine goes to back to school and Cooper goes back to college. And it's all fine and jolly until Blaine goes to his first dance ever, looking cute as a button, and…

Well.

Blaine, your Blaine, tiny Blaine, gets beaten up so badly that the next time you see him, he's tucked up in a hospital bed with two black eyes and a split cheek. None of his teachers came to help him, that much is clear. He was just left there with one other boy, on the sidewalk, by the other boys in his year. Your husband flies home and it's the first time you've seen him in weeks and he just crouches down at Blaine's hospital bedside and whispers, "Blaine, we're going to get this sorted out, we're going to, okay?" He reaches out to stroke Blaine's hair, partly to soothe him and partly because that's the only part of Blaine's body that isn't covered in bandages. But Blaine just turns his head away and rolls over, ignoring his father.

You're not sure why.

After that, Charles makes him go to the boxing gym in Columbus. It'll "toughen him up", he says, and you agree. The Dalton Recreation Center has the best boxing gym in the Midwest, the rudimentary website says. And the best is exactly what your son needs. You subscribe to the centre immediately, and Blaine has enough credit to go to a year's worth of boxing classes. Fantastic.

And since you're a housewife, of course you're the one who has to drive him. It's twice a week and an hour each way. That's four hours a week alone, in a car, with your twelve year old son. Mostly Blaine sits silently in the passenger seat crouched over his homework. He looks like he wants to disappear.

Two months in, he says the class has been extended. And then that it has been moved. To six o'clock. And then to five. And then it's three hours. And then it's three times a week. And then four. And you don't question it really, he's just keen and it's great he has a hobby that'll let him express his preteen anger in a safe environment.

And you watch as three years pass and he fills out and his voice breaks. He's solid, small and compact, quite the opposite of Cooper, and when he wears basketball shorts during those long summer days you notice how toned his legs have become from all the boxing. He has his hair cropped short that summer. You'll always remember when he walked into the kitchen with it all gone, when you barely recognised him. You miss the mass of curls, you really do, but you get used to it soon enough. He looks so much older and neater now, and you just know the girls are going to _love_ him. Especially when he gels it down. He looks like a movie star from the forties.

He starts doing his own laundry, just like Cooper did.

You let him. You understand teenage boys.

But you still cook for him. And you still drive him to and from the gym. While he's there you go shopping, meet up with friends, walk around downtown Columbus. You love that Blaine spends so long at the gym. Especially as he somehow manages to keep his grades in check as well.

But one day, when he is almost fifteen, he takes a deep breath just as you pull up outside Dalton Recreation Center. "Come in and watch me?" he says.

But you don't want to watch him getting beaten up or hurt or anything like that. You don't like violence. And anyway, you've arranged to meet a girlfriend downtown for supper. There's nothing you can do.

So he traipses inside alone, his gloves and his enormous kit bag slung over his shoulder, looking moodier than ever.

That's the first time you realise that your kid is deeply, deeply unhappy.

* * *

Blaine doesn't improve. You hear the occasional thump coming from his room, like he's jumping up and down or something, followed immediately by some sweet tinkling on the piano. Tchaikovsky? Your kid is talented, anyway. Perhaps even more talented than he is morose.

Eventually you ask Cooper, fresh off the back of a television commercial, to come home from LA. Much to your surprise, he does. You decide it'll be a great surprise to Blaine that his brother's home so you don't tell him; instead, you busy yourself by cleaning the house and baking cakes. At least you're good at making one of your sons happy.

And when Cooper swans in from the airport with his father in tow, he's a completely different guy from the one you left at the airport at Christmas time. He's wearing shades and a leather jacket, looking every bit the movie star you're sure he's destined to become. You can't help but mark the difference between your two sons when he leans over to embrace grinning Blaine's small frame. Cooper is a man, now, you realise; Blaine's still a little kid.

After dessert, there's that awkward moment when no one wants to be the first to leave the table. Fear of rudeness and adherence to the strict rules of social propriety, they both flow in your family blood as surely as plasma and haemoglobin. But suddenly, it's _Blaine _who breaks the silence. "Coop," he whispers, cringing when all heads spin to him. "Coop, can… can we go up to my room for a bit?" His eyes are big and imploring as he gazes up at his brother, who just bites his lip and gives a curt nod. "Sure, buddy," he replies.

You hope desperately that Cooper knows the right thing to say.

After dinner, you decide to put the freshly washed laundry in the airing cupboard right after dinner. Yes, it most certainly _is _a coincidence that the it happens to be right by Blaine's bedroom. And yes, you do have a lot of towels to fold. You'll be there for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. And no, of course you don't _deliberately_hear those two voices, so similar in tone but so different in inflection, spilling out from the gap between the closed door and the threshold.

"Does dad know?" you hear Cooper ask.

"Ssssh," Blaine says, and you panic that your footsteps have been heard. "They're right downstairs. Don't talk so loudly."

And you heave a silent sigh of relief.

"Yeah," you hear Blaine continue, and then some muffled words and then, "… take it well."

"Are you worried they might think you're, y'know, gay?" you hear Cooper ask a few seconds later. His voice is no louder than Blaine's, but his diction is far clearer from those hours of lessons at college. Bizarrely, you think more about this than the implications of question itself.

"No. Pretty sure they've figured that out already. Well, dad has. I'm pretty sure he knew before. But after he found my leotard…"

And you freeze. Because _you_ didn't know. And it's not… it's not like you really _care_, well… you _do_, but you… you don't know what to think. And you don't know whether you were _supposed _to have been able to tell or not and – Blaine owns a leotard.

"So… so you've not told them about… anything?" you hear Cooper continue.

"No. I almost did… I almost… I almost _showed_ mom, but she said she was busy."

"Damn."

"I know. I don't feel like I can ask ag –"

And you know this is the worst thing you've ever done, listening in on them like this. This is their private moment, their conversation. But still, you do the second worst thing you've ever done and burst in, tears in your eyes as you leap towards a bewildered Blaine and hug him close to your chest.

"Blaine, I'm so sorry, I heard… I…" Your mouth stops working. And Blaine's eyes turn angry, full of fire. You've never seen him like this before. He wriggles away.

"Wh- what did you hear?" he asks, his voice at once a shard of fire and ice.

"That… that…"

"See," Blaine says to Cooper as if you're not there, "She can't even say it. I knew this would happen, I did." His voice is full of pain and it lacerates your heart.

"Just tell her about it, B," Cooper says, his voice arrestingly neutral. "It's clearly a bit of a… surprise."

"Tell her what?"

"Everything."

And Blaine looks at you, half helplessly and half angrily, and says, "I need you to buy me a plane ticket to London. Please."

And you just stand, your mouth hanging open. "Wha- wha," you stumble. "Blaine, I thought you were… I thought you were coming out to me."

"What? That?" he says. "Oh, I thought you knew."

You just shake your head rapidly.

He pales and sinks back into himself.

"No, no… Blaine, honestly, it's fine, it'll just take some getting used to." You pause to look at your son, who is by now as white as a sheet. "Wait – what – _why _do you want to go to London? Is it… is it because you want to meet other… you know… gay people?" You can't help but place an awkward emphasis on those awkward words. Blaine has just told you something that's so far out of your comfort zone that he might as well have said he'd met an alien, and you'd never prepared for… you'd just never thought… Blaine likes _boxing_.

"I want to audition for the Royal Ballet School," he whispers.

"But you… Blaine?"

"Everyone says he'll do it, mom, if you just give him the chance. All his dance teachers, everyone at the Center, they all reckon he can do it," Cooper rambles.

And Blaine looks at you and just says, "Please."

"What? But… how have you… how did you learn to…?"

Blaine looks at his feet. "I went to boxing. And it was okay. But… one time, like, two weeks in, I went to the bathroom and on the way I heard that music… from The Nutcracker… that I remembered. So I followed it. Right into Mrs Kirkham's class of five year old girls." He smiles, reminiscing, and you can almost imagine his face, his happiness, as he discovered the class and… And then suddenly he goes serious again. "She asked me if I wanted to try. And she said I had… uh… like, a natural gift. And I never went back to boxing."

Your heart sings just to see him smiling.

But curt words drop one by one out from your mouth, heavy weights with leaden wings.

"We'll have to see what your father says."

Blaine visibly shakes.

"But… he knows you're gay, right?"

"I… yeah… but he wants me to be a tough guy. Not some… prancing fairy… you know."

You nod. "He never told me. That you're gay. He never mentioned it." You try to keep the bitter sense of betrayal you're feeling from leaking into your voice.

Blaine shakes his head and looks at the ceiling. "Well obviously not. You would have tried to make him stop making me repair cars and go fishing and play _golf_."

"I thought you liked golf!"

"Well I don't. I don't even like boxing, not really. I like ballet. And I _need_ to go to the Royal Ballet School. They have an upper school in Covent Garden, 16-18. And at the end you go on tour with a real company. Mom…" He gets so carried away he can no longer speak.

And suddenly, you want this for him with your whole heart, even though you've never actually _seen _what he can do. He's a clever boy, a really clever boy, and he knows what he wants. You tell yourself that your sudden conviction has nothing to do with the guilt of not knowing anything about your son, but you know in your heart of hearts that your son reached out for you and you ignored him and –

He is going to that school if it kills you.

You want to cry.

So you walk out of the room without saying anything else.

Cooper's laugh follows you out. "She took it quite well, considering," you hear him say.

* * *

When you find yourself sat next to your gay, fifteen and a half year old, ballet-dancing son on a Boeing 747 headed straight to Heathrow, you genuinely can't tell which of you is the more surprised. All you can think to do is shoot him a sly smile and say, "Don't tell your father."

"Thank you," he mouths back, his hand gripping your wrist as the plane prepares for take off.

"I believe in you," you say.

"You've never even seen me dance," he says.

You shrug. "I know you're good," you say. "Good enough for me to invest two airfares in you, anyway."

The fact that you don't care what this does to your marriage fills you with a terrifying thrill. As far as your husband knows, you're at home pinning washing on the line and Blaine's traipsing to and from the boxing gym-ballet studio. Pah.

The plane takes off and finally you feel free. It's the reprieve you didn't know you needed. A dreadful excitement tingles its way through your bones.

Blaine stares out of the window the whole flight, willing England and London and the school closer, closer, closer. This is his dream.

And, you realise, you're so happy to be there watching him chase it.

The plane pushes on, on, on through the dark clouds, and you arrive just as the sun is coming up. The flight path goes right over London, as if in welcome. You've never been before; your only experience of Europe was a brief trip to Vienna when you were nine. Blaine hasn't even made it there.

And you struggle with the baggage like you do in every domestic airport, and then you both go through passport control with your brand new navy blue passports and the passport control guy grins because you're probably the first people he's seen that day who actually look like their pictures. They were only taken four weeks ago, after all.

And when you finally step through Arrivals, London hits you. At first, it looks like any other airport, glass and steel and sweaty people. But then you see things, unfamiliar shops with names like WH Smith's, Upper Crust and Costa Coffee, and you hear unfamiliar accents, all unmistakably British but all different in their own weird ways. You follow the signs to the Underground and buy two travelcards from the machine on your credit card which, thankfully, works just fine. And then you and your son are on the navy blue Piccadilly Line. The Internet told you it goes right through to Covent Garden Station; you won't even need to change trains. It's like the tunnel was carved just for Blaine, you think.

And then you scold yourself for being so ridiculous.

* * *

It takes a long time on the Underground. The train hurtles from station to station, all strange names, until you finally get to familiar places you've heard of before. There's South Kensington, Hyde Park Corner, Piccadilly Circus.

And then the painfully English lady on the speaker system announces that _"The next station is, Covent Garden. Alight here for the London Transport Museum."_

And Blaine grins, _grins_, as he takes one suitcase and you take the other. The darkness of the tunnel turns into bright white light as you arrive at the station, and you step out onto the platform as soon as the doors slide open. It turns out there are no escalators so you wait for an elevator. It chimes when it arrives and you, along with everyone else on your train (perhaps everyone else in the _universe_), all begin to pile into it. It's way too small. Blaine laughs as he's squashed against the side. You try to be delighted that he's so happy but you're too busy getting crushed. Well, your arm is.

But before long the elevator chimes again and you're the first ones out. Fresh air hits you in the face and you see that the ticket barriers lead straight onto the street, straight out into London. You pass through them and end up right… wait… that's the glass bridge between two buildings you saw online. The Royal Ballet School Bridge of Aspiration. That must be the school. And you point at it but Blaine noticed it even before you did and he's just gaping, _staring_, like he can't believe he's here.

You can't really believe it either.

The two of you just wander out into the street, where there are old buildings and living statues and lots of people. And a massive drugstore called Boots.

You wander around in search of your hotel. It's on Mercer Street, you know that much, and you walk around bleary eyed until suddenly you see it. It's just a Radisson but it's nice enough. For now it's home.

And Blaine's audition is two whole days away.

You want to fall asleep but it's daytime so you shower, change and go straight out again. You get on the Underground train again, from Leicester Square this time because the concierge said it would be quicker, and you take the Northern Line, the black one, right down to Embankment. From there it's a short walk to the river, and you walk along it and Blaine snaps loads of pictures on his iPhone of the London Eye and Big Ben and generally does the whole tourist thing.

He's loving it, you can tell, but before long he's pulling at your coat sleeve and telling you he wants to go back.

To practise.

Right. Because he's a ballet dancer with the most important audition of his life coming up in, you check your watch, just under 46 hours.

You head back.

When in the lobby, you proudly find yourself telling the concierge that Blaine needs to practise his ballet. You look on as he grins charmingly at the guy and… and yep, that's on purpose, he's batting his eyelashes.

It's the first time you've ever seen your son flirt and you're sort of shocked, not because it's with a man – well, maybe a bit – but mainly because your son is… well, a sexual creature now. Weird.

Anyway, the (blushing?) concierge agrees to lend you an unused meeting room for the night. Free of charge, of course. And Blaine grins and reaches to pat the concierge on the arm and by this point the poor man looks like he's about to melt into a pile of goo.

As you're walking away, Blaine looks across at you and just says, "What?", as if nothing had happened at all.

* * *

It's strange watching your son transform before your very eyes in the hotel room you'll be sharing for the next four days. First he steps into the en suite, duffel bag in hand. You hear him take a shower, and a few minutes later he's shuffling through the door wearing a white leotard and black dancer's tights. He looks nervous so you beam encouragingly.

And then you _see_.

His arms are so strong now, as is his chest, and his legs are bandy and muscular. And his bare feet glide across the beige carpet without even trying at all. Yes, you think, your son is a dancer.

He sits on the bed and reaches down for a pair of black ballet pumps.

And after he's thrown on an old Saint Anselm's hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, he's ready.

"Want to come?" he asks.

And this time, you say yes.

* * *

You know, deep in your soul, that there's something awful about the fact that the first time you see your son dancing is right before his audition for one of the most prestigious ballet schools in the world. But at this moment, you don't care. You're so excited as you watch Blaine jog around for a bit and then bend down and stretch, looking like any other teenage boy.

For the moment.

But then he puts his iPhone on speaker and a distant orchestra from the past blares out into the room.

And he comes alive.

You gasp as your son, your Blaine, leaps and twirls and spins like it's nothing. You're dizzy just watching him, but he _loves_ this, you can tell. He feels the music from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, painting lines in the air with his arms and his legs.

He is a beautiful, beautiful _man_.

Your son.

_Blaine_.

And he looks so grown up you could cry.

And you do. Thoroughly ruining your make-up in the process.

* * *

They tell Blaine he'll hear back in a few weeks by way of letter. They'll be sure to send his a few days in advance, they say, so he'll hear back at the same time as everyone else. And they shake his hand and he smiles widely and you hope, hope, hope against every hope you've ever had that they are smiling out of admiration rather than pity.

* * *

You fly home a day later.

And the result is like a cloud over your head.

Feathery. White. Hopeful.

With the potential to turn into a grey flood of rainy tears at any moment.

* * *

And then, one morning after Blaine's already left for school.

"Annaaaaaa. ANNAAAAA!"

It's Charles. He comes rushing into the kitchen before you've even had a chance to move away from the stove. You try to compose yourself, knowing in your heart of heart what's coming.

"Anna," he says, breathlessly, "Is there any reason why I found this letter from The Royal Ballet School, Covent Garden in our mailbox this morning?"

"Yes," you reply, your chin high. "Blaine auditioned for them a few weeks ago. He wants to join their senior programme."

You watch as Charles swallows.

"So you know?" he says. For once, his expression is totally unreadable.

"I do," you nod.

"And you're okay with it?"

You shrug. "Yes."

And then the sneer appears. It twists your gut in the worst possible way, to see this ugliness spread its way across your husband's face like a maggot burrowing its way into a wound.

You watch as he laughs bitterly. "Blaine can't dance," he says.

"He can," you say, "I've seen him."

"Ah. Right. He may be _able_ to dance. But he cannot."

"I don't see why not, if that's what he wants," you say. "Anyway, he hasn't even opened his letter yet. It may all boil down to nothing."

And then you watch as Charles runs his fingers once, twice along the top of the envelope before he rips it open. You bring your hands to your face, your feet stuck to the floor, wishing that for once in your life you weren't so damn helpless.

And Charles reads, his eyes flicking emotionlessly across the page.

And when he finishes, he folds the paper up and puts it back in its envelope.

And holds the envelope in his hand. As if it's dirty.

He looks you up and down.

And then walks out of the room.

* * *

Blaine knows as soon as he walks through the door that something isn't quite right. And yes, the air feels different to you, too, like it's not quite sitting so comfortably any more. And you haven't put dinner on yet, or changed the flowers in the hallway, or turned the television on.

"Did it come?" he whispers.

You nod.

And he winces.

"Your dad found the letter," you say.

And then, before you can stop him, Blaine is tearing up the stairs, up one floor and then the next until you hear distant footsteps in the attic, where Charles situated his office all those years ago. To be away from the kids.

"GIVE ME IT!" you hear him shout. "GIVE IT TO ME! IT'S MINE!"

He sounds desperate. Utterly desperate.

You can't hear your husband.

"I WORKED SO HARD," you hear, "I WORKED SO HARD EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR THIS. WHO ARE YOU TO TAKE THIS AWAY? THIS IS MINE, FOR ME!"

"AND WHAT?" your husband finally fires back, "YOU THINK _I _WANTED MY SON TO GROW INTO A FUCKING PRANCING FAIRY? NO! I WANTED MY SON TO GROW INTO A _MAN_."

And then it goes silent. And you're pretty sure Charles has made him cry or run away or hide or whatever.

But there's no noise.

And, ten minutes later, Blaine emerges.

Letter in hand.

"Should I open it?" he asks.

You bite your lip and nod, suspecting you already know the answer and hoping with everything you have that you're right.

And he reads.

And he looks at you.

And he smiles, wider than ever.

"I got in," he says.

And then you hug him close and your memories fade to black.

* * *

When Blaine leaves for London, alone this time, in September of that very same year, you say goodbye to him as an all but divorced woman. Charles isn't who you wanted. Not at all. Especially when he starts arguing with you about your right to take money from the shared bank account. Money that was once yours.

You move out next week.

Blaine isn't remotely bothered by it.

Cooper is. A bit.

It sounds bad but you don't care too much either way: neither of them has to be married to the selfish prick.

But now is not a time for thoughts like that.

Because you're the airport, and you're hugging your younger son close right as he's about to go through the Departures gate. "I'll miss you," you say, "I love you so much."

And you squeeze him harder. You don't want him to go. But you really, really do at the same time.

This is, after all, what _Blaine_ wants. Just like getting divorced is what you want.

It's not what Charles wants.

Simply because it's inconvenient.

"Thank you for making my dreams come true," Blaine whispers, before walking off, stronger than ever as he disappears into the crowd.

And you break. Just like that.

* * *

Charles doesn't look at you as you move your stuff out into the van you hired. You don't have a lot; you threw most of your belongings out when you got married because Charles's stuff was better quality. You didn't want to. But you did anyway.

The last box is packed and you're ready to go, and there's not one shadow of doubt in your mind that this is not the right course of action for you. And you hand your key back to your cell, right into Charles's hand.

"Keep it," he says. He looks down at his feet. "I want for you to keep it."

You think about it.

"Okay," you say, tucking the key into your pocket.

Charles leans down and pecks you on the cheek. "I'm sorry," he says.

"I'm not," you smile brightly.

He pauses, looking thoroughly nauseous, and you take that as your cue to leave.

But as you're halfway down the drive for the final time, he shouts, "Anna!" His voice breaks and when you turn around you see there are tears rolling down his face, leaving sticky tracks like slug slime right across his cheeks. Weirdly, it breaks your heart. You can't help it. But you know you can't live with him any more.

"Bye Charles," you say. And you run to the van before you can change your mind.

A few tears slip out of your own eyes.

But you drive off anyway.

* * *

You set up a bakery, like you've always wanted.

Long hours. Hard work. Great recipes.

Of course it's a success.

* * *

Charles invites you back to the house every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Every year, both Cooper and Blaine are full of news, full of spirit, full of life. Cooper got cast in a regional cop drama; Blaine went on tour with the Royal Ballet in his final year of school. It's fantastic to be this sort-of-family again.

Two years later and Cooper has a wife, Emma. They got married in Las Vegas by a Barry Manilow lookalike with no guests present. They were probably drunk. But they seem happy enough. She has had one too many lip enhancements to be pretty, you think, but then again that _is_ the Californian way.

An extra seat is added at the table.

A year after that, Charles manages to get himself a girlfriend, a lithe blonde thing named Fiorella with orange skin and long, fake eyelashes. She's a year younger than Emma and it kind of sickens you, but you smile to yourself when you realise that you were far too intelligent for Charles's tastes. At least he's fooled himself into being happy, you think. You buy her Playboy-themed jewellery for Christmas and she's too stupid to realise the implications.

Blaine isn't. He laughs loudly.

You miss him so much. You wish he didn't live in London.

* * *

Twelve months later, another seat is added by Cooper. Without explanation. A cab pulls up outside, and the doorbell goes, and Cooper answers it. Muffled voices come from the hallway, but you're busy basting the turkey in your old house because Fiorella's nails don't agree with poultry so you can't welcome them for now.

Ten minutes later, you walk into the family room. The ballet is on, 'Giselle', and everyone is gathered around, completely enraptured. Apart from Fiorella, you notice; she looks bored. And Charles. He's half-drunk and hasn't bothered to move from his seat.

"And that's Blaine! Right there!" a high, unfamiliar voice chimes. And Cooper falls to his knees right in front of the TV saying "Where? Where?" and Blaine points and you look across and down at him and –

Oh.

Blaine's other hand.

Is holding the hand.

Of a rakish boy with perfect hair and dazzling blue eyes.

You hurry up to the TV to look for Blaine and you can identify him immediately; he leaps the highest, twirls the neatest, feels the most.

"Isn't he brilliant," Blaine's new number one fan murmurs dreamily, immediately usurping you of your title.

Blaine rolls his eyes and in doing so sees you. "Mom!" he says, piling on top of you in an embrace. "Did you see it? I was in _Giselle_! It was incredible."

"I saw," you nod, smiling.

A short silence. You wait for him to tell you who this strange man is.

He doesn't.

He just looks so _shy_.

"Well, aren't you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?" you prompt.

And Blaine blushes. _Blushes_.

The boy elbows him playfully, trying to get him to talk.

"Mom, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is my mom, Anna."

You shake hands. His handshake is firm yet friendly and his blue eyes gaze right into yours.

"Great to meet you, Mrs –"

"Oh, no, I'm divorced," you say. "Just call me Anna."

"Great to meet you, Anna," he corrects, smooth as anything.

"Kurt is in the Royal Ballet Company too, mom," Blaine says. "And, weirdly, he's from Lima. It's just too bad… It's too bad we didn't meet before."

And you watch as Blaine's hand gravitates to Kurt's and grips it tightly.

"But I won't let you go now," you hear him whisper, leaning over to kiss his boyfriend on the forehead. "Never." And you look away.

Because this is them.

Their moment.

Their _love_.

Even so, you can't help but overhear Kurt's murmured, "I'll never say goodbye to you," ghost into the room. It sounds like a proposal. Very much like a proposal.

And you smile.

Because you know that it'll happen.

Very, very soon.

* * *

They get married the August of the next year. They've both relocated to New York now, both senior members of the ABT. You made their cake and shipped it out to them, complete with little figurines of the two of them on the top. You've never made a wedding cake before, but somehow it turns out perfectly anyway.

Kurt texts you to thank you for it.

And then it's the day of the wedding.

The guests all watch the two of them dance the matinee of Matthew Bourne's _Swan Lake_.

They watch Blaine dancing his dream. With his swan.

And they're perfect. It's perfect. Everything about it is perfect. And it's so masculine and strong and Blaine… well, Blaine's open chest and feathery dance pants and breathtaking leaps make your heart burst with pride because this is, to your shame, only the second time you've seen him dance in the flesh and… he's the best dancer there.

You love it.

And you look across and Charles is captivated. Heat surges through your body because this is Blaine, dancing a traditionally female role, and it's the most macho thing he's probably ever seen. You watch as your ex-husband's mouth drops open and feel strangely vindicated.

And then you look to Fiorella who is, of course, indifferent, and she kills the feeling somewhat.

And then the whole thing is over too soon.

And you all move to the venue. The whole company comes with you in a big coach.

And you know ballet dancers don't earn much money, but Kurt and Blaine seem to be doing okay for themselves. Judging from the venue, at least. It has a beautiful view of the New York skyline, and it's absolutely covered in pink and white flowers.

You later learn that everyone in the company chipped in.

As did Burt, Kurt's father.

As did _Charles_.

And they're married. Just like that. And you cry and Kurt cries and Blaine cries and they're swept away in a car, away from you, away from New York, away from everything but each other. They'll be back for tomorrow's matinee; they can't miss a performance, they can't risk their position in this competitive company. But they can take a night for themselves. A night to acknowledge that everything they'd ever dreamed has come true.

And that's the moment you cry, right as the party's dying down and everyone's heading out into the New York fall. Partly because of happiness for your son, party because you're grieving the first forty five years of your life when you let other people tell you what you wanted from life.

At least you've made it happen now.

You have your bakery and your sons and everything you ever wanted.

And now a man at the bar is smiling at you and you wipe the tears from your face and move over and…

And it works out really well for you. In the end.

* * *

Three months later and you count your blessings.

You have a thriving bakery for a business.

A British builder for a boyfriend.

And a swan for a son.

And maybe, just maybe, you did need ballet in the end.


End file.
